ABCs of Sherlock Holmes
by Haelia
Summary: A drabble for every letter of the alphabet. John POV. 221b-style stories, meaning each entry is 221 words, last word starts with 'b'. No spoilers, no real content, just friendly fluff. Maybe a little h/c wonderfulness. No slash. Unless you really really squint with your goggles on.
1. Awaken

**A/N: Been seeing quite a few of these and wanted to do my own set. Mine will be a bit different, though – they're all from John's POV. Maybe I'll do another set later about John from Sherlock, if anyone sounds remotely interested. Oh, and this set is also going to be all 221b (which means each entry will be 221 words, the last word starting with 'b').**

**Expect a lot of h/c (hurt/comfort) because that's how I roll. Thusly labelled.**

A. Awaken  
It's an amazing sight to behold, really: Sherlock asleep. It happens so rarely and for such brief periods that by itself, it is something of a wondrous thing to look upon. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I've happened upon Sherlock asleep. And each time, I've found myself utterly entranced.

Sherlock is the very embodiment of what a man should look like when sleeping. His repose is so peaceful, so utterly without trouble that it makes me jealous at times. His normally tense body relaxes into a sort of elegant drape across the couch, or the barely-used bed in his room; his face smoothes into a boyish picture of serenity; his breathing slows to a gentle whisper of moving air. If he's lying on the couch on his back, I can see the pronounced rise-and-fall of his thin chest.

He stays just like that, one arm languidly dangling off the side of the sofa or the settee, dark hair a graceful tousle atop his head…

God, I sound like an idiot.

And yet, I do it every time. Stare. Watch. Creepy?

It's been three hours, he's sure to be up any minute. I don't make a sound, but as soon as I've thought of it, his eyes flutter open. He stretches, stands. Sleep is boring.


	2. Bored!

B. Bored!

It's December. There's a whiteout snowstorm outside. We're stuck in the flat. No cases to work on, and no way of getting out in this weather even if there was. I don't mind the break – I'm off from work (my real work), which means I get to settle down in my chair with a good book and a nice hot cuppa for the rest of the day.

Oh wait, no it doesn't, because I'm flatmates with Sherlock Holmes. Silly me.

"John, I'm _bored_," he whines.

He's already beaten me at chess six times. Well, I say 'beaten' but he just predicts my moves and then walks away. He's uncannily accurate each time, too. We've discussed the life out of the most recently closed case, and he even helped me update my blog. So at this point, I'm ready to crack open that book, but Sherlock is nowhere near the point of settling down.

"Why don't you try reading?" I suggest, dropping down into my chair and waiving my book around.

"I've read everything," he deadpans.

"You've not read _everything_," I retort. "There are millions of books written on millions of subjects."

"I've read everything in here," Sherlock amends, gesturing to indicate the whole flat.

I consider the living room and estimate how many books there are. "Fine. That I can believe."


	3. Cut

C. Cut

"It's going to be fine," I'm telling him, covered in blood. His blood. He's staring at me with those all-knowing eyes, and I think I've made a slip. I think he can deduce that because I'm saying aloud that it'll be fine, I'm not actually sure it will be.

I'm not. Sure, I mean. I'm not sure. What I am sure of, though, that I shouldn't have said what I said. I should have shouted at him and called him a dolt and snapped at him to stop wriggling or something. I realise how useless these speculations are almost as soon as they occur; Sherlock knows everything. Somehow, some way, he always figures it out. No matter what.

A man can tell when he's dying.

His eyes roll back and I tap his cheek with my free hand. The other one is clamped down over the wound in his side and I can feel the blood sliding through my fingers. "No," I tell him firmly. "Open your eyes, Sherlock, and look at me."

He blinks his eyes open again and I sigh through my teeth. Then I hear the sirens. Thank God. It's not a guarantee for Sherlock's life, but it certainly is an improvement.

I'll be a happy man if I never have to see another drop of Sherlock's blood.


	4. Debilitated

**A/N: Yes, C&D go together. Most of these chapters are standalone stories all their own, but occasionally a couple of them might be continuations of one another. I'll be sure to let you know whenever that happens. Enjoy! **

D. Debilitated Detective

I suppose it's unnecessary to say that Sherlock survives the stabbing. Of course he does. He's Sherlock. A mere knife inserted into his lung will not be the thing that takes him down. No, surely it will be far more complicated than that.

But sitting here, in the hospital room where Sherlock's sleeping away the week, it's not something I want to spend a lot of time thinking about. It was too close a call for comfort, and it doesn't bear consideration just yet.

Mycroft stands behind my chair, dark eyes on Sherlock, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He's been mostly silent. He's been in and out since Sherlock was admitted. I suppose he probably has some international disaster to look after or orchestrate and that's why he hasn't lived in one of these uncomfortable visitor's chairs like I've been doing. He doesn't explain when he leaves, I'm just left to assume.

And if it's _actually_ because he's a little intimidated by all this, I can't really blame him. It seems to me he often feels responsible for Sherlock's well-being. I know how that feels. I've been in that place before, and it's not always the most comfortable. You're supposed to be there, to watch out, because you're older. Responsibility always falls to the older brother.


	5. Educate

E. Educate

"John, did you know that more human deaths have been attributed to fleas than all the wars ever fought?"

I tear my eyes away from the telly and look at Sherlock, who's seated on the sofa, as usual, with his laptop. "No, I did not."

"They carried the plague," he points out. "Did you know that ants cannot chew?"

"No, I did not."

"Did you know that dragonflies can fly at speeds of up to sixty miles per hour?"

"No, I did not."

"The Madagascan Hissing Cockroach gives birth to live young instead of laying eggs. Houseflies can transmit anthrax. Only female mosquitoes bite. Only male crickets chirp. The blood of insects is yellow. A queen bee can lay up to 1500 eggs per day during peak production. Fifteen hundred, John!"

"I… see… ?"

"Aristotle founded entomology. Did you know that insects sometimes get confused and try to mate with flower parts that resemble other insects? It's called pseudocopulation."

"Maybe that's what's happening when dogs go at it with the leg of the table." I snort and feel pretty clever.

"I think not." A pause. Scrolling, tapping on Sherlock's part. No doubt he's to continue with the insect tirade.

"Sherlock, is there a reason you're on an insect trivia kick?"

He scrolls some more. "It's important to be educated about bugs."


	6. Frothy

F. Frothy

"I don't understand."

Lestrade and I stare at each other, trying to decide if we've both just heard what we think we heard. Did Sherlock actually just say, _I don't understand_? I watch Greg's face go from shock to disbelief and then disappear behind his coffee cup. I decide to bite the bullet and ask aloud the question on our minds.

"Sherlock," I begin slowly. "What is it that you don't understand…?"

Sherlock looks at me as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. Or as if I simply haven't been listening. Really, they're the same look.

"The… _froth_," he says. He's looking into his coffee cup.

"Yes…?"

"Why do they make it like that? Why does anyone _want_ it like that?"

We're sitting in Speedy's and Sherlock's questioning their frothy coffee. Of course. This is my life now. Why should I be surprised. I sigh and sip at my tea.

"I think it's just from the steamed milk," Greg offers. "I think it just… _froths_." He snorts.

We've said the word _froth_ or some variation so many times now that it's really not sounding like a word at all anymore.

Sherlock Holmes is not stupid, but sometimes he is naïve. Sometimes, I sense that beneath all that intelligence, or hiding behind it, there is just a boy.


	7. Ghost

G. Ghost

It's Halloween. We ought to be out solving crime or doing _something_ to try to pay the rent on time, but instead we're at Baker Street, hosting a party. Although, I'm not entirely sure it can really be called a party since there are only a few people here – Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I. Mycroft makes an appearance, but he gets mysteriously called away within twenty minutes of his arrival. I'm not sure why he bothers coming to these rare social gatherings of ours; he never sticks around. And it isn't as if Sherlock would miss him if he didn't come at all – would he?

Sherlock emerges from the washroom draped in a blue sheet he snagged from the linen closet.

"Eh, what are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson questions him.

"Being a ghost!" Sherlock replies, his voice muffled from beneath the sheet.

"Ghosts aren't blue," Greg points out.

"Have you ever seen one?" challenges Sherlock.

Greg smiles. "What if I have?"

"If you had," Sherlock says, "then chances are you were so shocked by the ordeal that you would not be able to recall, with accuracy, most details of the ghost's appearance beyond what was immediately apparent and obvious. Therefore, you could not possibly know for sure that it was not blue."

Our party promptly dissolves into ghost-related bickering.


	8. Hail

H. Hail

I like London rain. It makes me happy. Not being out in it – not being dragged through moors and marshes in it by one Sherlock Holmes – but when it's pouring out and I can sit by the fire with a nice cup of tea and a good book, I'm pretty content.

That's exactly what I'm doing when Sherlock walks in the door on a particularly stormy June afternoon. A clap of thunder rolls as he crosses the threshold, making his entrance all the more dramatic. Completing the image is the fact he's clutching at one of his eyes with his left hand. The other hand is wrapped around something white, about the size of a cricket ball.

I groan. "What have you done to yourself?"

Sherlock frowns. "Hail," he replies. He holds up his right hand, showing me the huge piece of hail he's picked up.

"_That_ hit you in the face?" I get up and meet him halfway across the sitting room, prying his hand away from his face to inspect his eye. It'll likely be bruised, but appears otherwise undamaged. I catch his wince, though, as my fingers gently explore the delicate skin around his eye.

"Yes. But now I shall experiment upon it." He grins, pulling away from me, and goes to work.

I can only sigh. "Brilliant…"


	9. Intermezzo

I. Intermezzo

Sherlock will tell you, and I will freely admit, that I am not a man of culture or artistic knowledge. I cannot pick out a good operatic singer from a poor one, and I would hate to undertake such an endeavour in the first place. I have borne witness to Sherlock dressing in tails to go and see a symphony (with Lestrade, with Mycroft, or by himself) when a particular violinist or composer was in town, but if I should happen to accompany him, there is no doubt in my mind that I would fall asleep in the middle of the performance.

Still, with that being said, I am confident in my analysis when I say that a violin is less an instrument in the hands of Sherlock Holmes, and more an extension of his own body. I have heard – at Sherlock's behest – several so-called 'genius' violinists of various eras, and yet the only artist to have wholly moved me thus far is Sherlock himself.

One day, as he is finishing an original composition, I tell him this. He smiles, clearly flattered, but tries to play it off. "It was a rather simple piece," he says quietly, reverently replacing the instrument in its velvet-lined case. He is modest. This is the one talent of his about which he does not boast.


	10. Joyful

J. Joyful

It is Christmas. We are all gathered at 221b, as usual. And by we, I mean – Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and myself. We're two hours into our little celebration, and Molly and Lestrade are rather drunk and flirting in the corner. Mrs. Hudson is gazing dreamily at Sherlock as he plays a series of Christmas tunes on the violin, and I'm… well, I'm here. Documenting it all for our faithful readers.

I've come to discover a few things this evening. Lestrade is a lightweight. Molly drinks vodka cranberries. Sherlock prefers a dry white wine. I hate dry white wine. And Mrs. Hudson can drink us all under the table.

We pass the holiday as we've done in the past. We drink too much, exchange gifts, and Sherlock hurls unwarranted insults at people from time to time. He holds back a little, though, in the spirit of the holiday. I'm thankful for this. So far he has managed not to humiliate poor, sweet Molly. Or anyone else. It's nice.

Towards the end of the evening, Mycroft rings to wish us all a happy Christmas and briefly berate Sherlock for his absence from the family home. The world's only consulting detective has his eyes locked on mine when he says into his mobile, "This year I had someplace else I'd rather be."


	11. Kneading

K. Kneading

It's a chilly day in January, and starting to snow when I finally make my way home from the shops. I've not been able to procure much in the way of groceries aside from the milk – it seems that all of London has been out to stock up in defense of this approaching snowstorm. As displeased as I am with my trip, my cloudy mood starts to clear up as I shoulder through the door and breathe in the warm, pleasant scent of fresh biscuits.

"Mrs. Hudson, they smell marvelous," I call, hoping flattery will earn me a snack. There is no reply, so I head upstairs. What I see there surprises me.

The work surface in the kitchen has been cleaned off and floured, and Sherlock is elbow-deep in some sort of dough or batter, and as I approach I can see that it is he who is baking, and not Mrs. Hudson. I'm not sure he's aware that he doesn't have to knead biscuits.

"Are you…?"

"Baking," Sherlock replies. "Yes. Destroyed a batch of Mrs. Hudson's. Experiment. _Accident_." He frowns sourly and turns to the oven as the timer bleats. He slips on an oven mitt and extracts the sweets, then groans unhappily as he places them on the stovetop. "Oh, no..." Every last one of them is burned.


	12. Lanai

L. Lanai

"It's a _verandah_."

"Call it what you like, John." Sherlock's shrug is lackadaisical, as though he can't even be bothered to put effort into such a meaningless gesture. "But my term is the correct one."

"They mean the same thing!"

"Oh, I _suppose_."

I clench my fists in frustration as I stare him down from across the verandah, or the lanai, or the porch, or whatever the bloody thing is actually called. At this point, I've rather forgotten about the murder victim lying dead between us. "You just like using obscure vocabulary to impress people."

"There's no one here to impress," he points out, his glance around encompassing the entire space.

"I'm standing right here."

"You think I'm trying to impress you?"

I puff up my chest a little, because yes, I do, in fact, think that very thing. "Constantly."

Sherlock fidgets.

Of course I pounce on his awkward avoidance. "You crave my approval. My praise." I grin like a cat that's caught a mouse. "More, in fact, than other people's."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because we're friends, Sherlock." My tone softens a little, unconsciously.

After a pregnant pause, Sherlock nods. "Fine, yes."

"Pardon?"

"I said yes!"

Of course, I can't formulate a response to his sudden aquiescence, so I just put my hands on my hips, admittedly somewhat baffled.


	13. Malcontent

M. Malcontent

"The milk's gone off." Sherlock's voice cuts into the silence of our sitting room on a drizzly afternoon. He's standing behind his armchair, hands braced on either side of the backrest, pondering the fire with a venomous glare.

"You could go and get some," I point out, glancing past my laptop screen at him. I don't know why I bother mentioning this to him – he never goes unless I drag him along with me. This time, he doesn't trouble himself coming up with an answer to my proposal, and I go back to my blog.

"Have you seen my purple shirt?" he asks next.

I blink uncomprehendingly at him. "What?"

"Dolce and Gabbana. Purple shirt. The one you say women like."

"Why would I have seen it?"

"I can't find any of my washing."

"What!" Why am I surprised? "Please don't tell me you were running another experiment with the washing machine."

"No, I wasn't, I was... running a different kind of experiment. On myself. And now I've misplaced... things."

In truth, I'm somewhat used to things like this. They don't shock me anymore, but they do bother me, though I try not to let him see that. "I don't want to know," I say decidedly, and turn back to my blog.


	14. Noise

N. Noise

It is an awful, horrible, ear-ringing _screech_ that wakes me one morning. I recognise the sound of the violin bow being dragged unceremoniously across the strings, and groan aloud as I roll over in bed to look at the clock. Four-forty-six, it reads in glowing red numbers. I groan again. Just last week I had to talk to Sherlock about playing the violin at odd hours. Music is one thing – on a good night, I can sleep through music. But that _sound_ is not conducive to normal brain function, much less any sort of rest.

_Screech_ again. I set my jaw and drag myself out of bed, pulling a warm jumper on over my pyjamas. No point trying to go back to sleep now, is there? Not if that's going to continue. I might as well make a pot of tea and watch the early news.

He's sitting in his usual chair when I enter the sitting room, but when he looks up, he seems surprised to see me. So surprised, in fact, that the bow screeches once more, and I wince.

"Didn't realise you were here," he says. He blinks rapidly a few times, as though to make sure I'm real. "Thought you were round at Sarah's. Sorry, John." Carefully, apologetically, he sets aside his violin and bow.


	15. Obsequious

O. Obsequious

"John..." Sherlock's voice is hesitant, meek, and it catches my attention with its softness. It's a strange effect, and I realise too late that that might be exactly what he wants – but by then I've looked up, my expression warmly expectant.

After half a moment's consideration, the detective throws himself at my feet, clasping his hands atop my knees. I sit forward in my chair, alarmed by his demeanour, and nearly pull away from the sudden contact. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I need something from you," Sherlock says solemnly. He bites his lip and casts his eyes downward, as though he is ashamed or hesitant to ask. He takes a breath to steel himself and swallows apprehensively.

I'm becoming concerned now, and I can feel myself frowning as I squirm under his interlocked fingers. Carefully, I watch my friend's face, examining his features for any signs of – well, of an experiment. It wouldn't be the first time he'd accidentally poisoned himself with something that made him completely delirious. "Sherlock," I prompt after the silence has dragged on, "what is it?"

"Can I... that is, may I... borrow your laptop?"

My shoulders sag. "Don't you usually? Without asking?"

"Yes," he says, straightening up, "but I wanted to see how you'd react if I begged."


End file.
